


The Man in the Suit

by spiralicious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Demonic Possession, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, SPN Horror Minibang, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralicious/pseuds/spiralicious
Summary: Sam isn't sure what's wrong with him. Nothing makes sense any longer. His world is filled with blackouts, blood, too many Dean's for him to keep track of, and the (usually) disembodied voice of the strange man in the black suit that is he never sure if he is friend or foe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my artist, Chomaisky for her absolutely beautiful art work. (Which can be found here: http://chomaisky.livejournal.com/85075.html) It was such a joy working with her.
> 
> I also want to thank my beta Lynx212, who did such a wonderful job and put up with my nuttiness. 
> 
> And I want to thank Vexed Wench for putting up with my whining through this entire writing process.

Blood dripped off his hands. Sam stared down at them, watching the thick droplets stream off his skin in fascination. His mind was still hazy. The room was dark. He looked around, unable to recognize where he was. His vision going in and out, the edges fuzzy. A dull ache bloomed in the back of his head, closely followed by shrill ringing in his ears. Sam bowed his head, bringing his sticky, wet hands to his ears in a futile effort to block it out. A pitiful sound close to a whimper tumbled past dry parched lips as his body curled in on itself. His head to the viscous liquid covering the floor, he pushed body parts out of the way as he rocked himself. Distantly, someone calling “Sammy” bounced around his consciousness, not truly penetrating until a hand touched his shoulder.

He jumped at the contact, distancing himself from the hand by scrambling through the muck across the room. His heart raced in his chest as his eyes darted around wildly trying to assess the new threat. They landed on a dark figure crouching in front of him. It had its arms held open with hands up, palms facing him, talking softly in a low, deep voice. It took a few moments for the words to seep past the ringing and the pain. “Sam? Sammy, it's me.”

“Dean?” Tears started to pool in the corner of Sam's eyes.

Dean relaxed and took a step towards his brother. “You got to come with me, Sam.”

Sam leapt forward and wrapped himself around Dean in a crushing embrace. He knew Dean. Dean would help.

He felt Dean wrap his arms around him. “You hurt?”

Sam shook his head and buried it deeper into the crook of Dean's neck. He could feel his brother let out a sigh of relief.

“You know you aren't supposed to go out alone, Sam. We have to get you home and cleaned up before someone finds you, okay?” Dean pushed him back to look him in the eye and waited for a response.

Sam nodded. He really didn't know what Dean was talking about, but Dean took care of him. Dean made things right. Sam noticed for the first time he was getting blood all over Dean. He tried to wipe it off, but it only made it worse. He whined in frustration and started to panic because no matter how hard he tried to wipe it off, Dean just got bloodier.

Dean grabbed his hands. “It's okay, Sam. Stop. We'll fix it at home. We have to get in the car now.” He spoke slowly, yet firmly as he emphasized each word.

Sam struggled a moment before he finally gave in and nodded. Dean was always right. If they had to go, they had to go. He couldn't look his brother in the eye though. He'd gotten Dean all bloody. Everything was always all bloody. It never seemed to go away.

Dean didn't let Sam go as he walked him out of the warehouse to the Impala. Sam knew he recognized the Impala. It was important. He couldn't remember why at the moment, but it was important, and more importantly it was safe. He let Dean wrap him in a blanket and help him lay down in the back seat. After he was settled in, Dean got in the driver's seat and sped them away. It was several minutes before he spoke again and it was some sort of lecture about leaving the house and how it wasn't safe. Sam tuned him out and just kept reminding himself that Dean was always right, over and over again, until the voice popped in and reminded him that Dean also said there was no such thing as demons. That gave Sam pause.

“Shut up.”

Dean looked at him sharply in the rear view mirror.

Sam sighed. He was suddenly very tired. “I wasn't talking to you, Dean,” was the mumble before he closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable so he could sleep.

Sam's legs instinctively kicked out and he backed up, only to run into the seat back when something shook him awake. After a few moments to process, he blinked up at Dean, who was leaning over the front seat grinning at him, waiting. “Welcome home, Sammy.”

Something about the way Dean said that set off alarm bells in Sam's mind, but he couldn't figure out why. The Dean that was helping him out of the car and to the front door of their house was not the Dean that had picked him up from the warehouse. Sam was having trouble pinpointing what was wrong; he was too cheerful? Too playful maybe? Was he older? It was hard to tell with Dean sometimes. Didn't he have a different jacket earlier? More importantly, since when did they have a house? Sam knew people had houses. It was perfectly normal to have a house, but everything about this situation screamed wrong, but he couldn't get away from Dean. He wanted the Dean from before. Why did Dean have to keep doing this?

They finally made it through the door. Everything looked familiar and at the same time totally wrong. Dean still had Sam wrapped in the blanket, tighter than before somehow. After a couple more futile attempts to get away, Sam let Dean lead him to the bathroom. He had no clue why he knew that they were in fact going the right way to the bathroom. As far as he could tell, he had never been in this house before in his life, but he knew it better than he knew anything else. And all their stuff was there. Although, Sam couldn't remember when they had gotten stuff. He also hoped he wasn't getting blood on the beige carpet. It wasn't a pleasant looking carpet to start with, but he would hate to think the other Dean would have to clean it up. He was always making a mess of things and Dean was always having to clean up after him. It wasn't fair to Dean.

“And yet you just keep making them don't you?” The voice decided to chime in again.

“Why don't you ever talk to me when I want you to?” Sam was fairly certain he wasn't talking out loud this time or this Dean didn't care as he didn't react either way.

“Ah, Moose. I didn't realize you were so keen to talk to me. All you have to do is remember my name.”

Sam searched his mind. All he ever came up with were vague memories of a man in a black suit and sometimes some red smoke. He was sure he could remember more, but something always interrupted him.

The shower spray hit Sam at full power in the face. He coughed a few times and backed away, finally realizing he was free from Dean's grip. The blanket was gone, but he was still fully dressed in his blood caked clothes. The shower was huge and open, like a locker room. Warm yellow tiles covered the floor and wall. He could see at least three shower heads and drain in the middle of the floor from where he was sputtering. There was no way the house they entered could have contained such a room, but again the yellow tiles looked familiar and somewhat inviting. He wiggled his toes against them and wondered what happened to his boots and his socks.

Dean interrupted his thoughts once again by handing him a bar of soap. Sam held the bar of soap and examined his brother's face. He still looked off. Dean was smirking a little too much and standing a little too close. Sam couldn't put his finger on exactly why, but his brother's entire demeanor made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He tried to back up, but Dean grabbed his shirt with both hands, tightly fisting them in the fabric as he pulled him back under the spray.

“Careful, Sammy. Wouldn't want you to slip,” Dean's eyes searched over his body. There was a hint of a challenge there.

Sam, not for the first time in his life, felt like an ensnared rabbit. He watched some of the tenseness leave Dean's shoulders as the grip on his shirt loosened. Sam didn't move or struggle in any way as his brother let go and started unbuttoning his blood stained shirt. Dean's expression went from menacing to malevolently playful. Sam downcast his eyes. He didn't like this Dean at all.

“We should probably just burn these clothes,” Dean said casually as he tossed Sam's flannel to the side.

Sam couldn't stop the flinch that overtook him at the squelching noise it made when it hit the floor. He shuffled under the spray more as he watched the watered down blood stream off his body and swirl around his toes on it way towards the drain. He remembered this Dean now. He wasn't going to like what was next. Dean's hand slid up Sam's stomach under his t-shirt as he peeled it off his little brother.

“You're staying then?” Sam asked quietly. He could fight back, but that had never worked before. He had two different memories warring in his head, one yammering about playing your part if you want to get out and the other was a forked tongue waggling at him. Neither had anything to do with his current situation, not that he could place what they were about either, but they shaped his response to it just the same.

“Why not? I used to bathe you all the time,” Dean said as he finished peeling Sam's shirt off and pulled it over his head, with minimal cooperation from his brother. Sam shivered. “That was different though wasn't it?” Dean's tone was mocking. “Baby Sammy and broken Sammy that needed his big brother to take care of him. Dutiful Dean gently washing and caring for his favorite burden.” Dean gently bit down on Sam's shoulder while pushed at the waistline of Sam's jeans and underwear. “Nothing like this, right Sammy?” Sam tried to inch away, but was held put by Dean's grip on his cock. “Don't be shy, Sam,” Dean mocked in his ear. “This is what you always wanted right? Poor, stupid, teenage baby brother, practically drooling with his stolen looks. You were always a little breathless watching my arms while I drove or paying too much attention to my shirt riding up. Always managing to walk in on me in the bathroom at the wrong time or pulling a baby bitchface when you saw me with a girl. Oh, I knew, Sammy. It made me sick, but you know, you were my stupid little brother so I pretended not to notice. Then, oh god, you idiot, that night you stole dad's beer and kissed me. You were what, sixteen? After you sobered up, I had to keep a straight face and tell you not to worry, it was all okay. Like I really thought it was just the beer, while inside I was trying not to hurl.” Dean had managed to open Sam's pants and shove them down his thighs during his little speech. He was stroking Sam's cock painfully hard while Sam tried to pull away. “Enjoy it now, Sammy, 'cause... quit whimpering and look at me!” Dean demanded. He dug his nail under the head of Sam's cock when he resisted until he finally looked at his brother. Dean's eyes were jet black. He licked his lips, smirking, clearly enjoying this. “Because I don't care anymore.”

“Sam, unless you enjoy this kind of abuse, which I sadly think you don't, might I suggest you wake up?” The voice suggested, sounding horribly bored.

Sam woke up gasping for breath. Dean was shaking him. It took a few moments for Sam to take in his surroundings. He was in a small bedroom, dominated by the large bed. Everything looked very cozy, but it was a bit on the bare side. It looked familiar though. Bobby's maybe? There was a Bobby, right?

“You're having nightmares again.” Dean was cautiously looking Sam over. It was then that it registered to Sam that his brother was in the bed with him. They were dressed, sort of. Dean had on a t-shirt and boxers. He looked younger. His hair was shorter, lighter. There was more mirth in his general demeanor, and softer somehow. This was the cock sure older brother that took care of him and started prank wars. He started lecturing Sam about something. Sam wasn't really paying attention. He'd caught his own reflection in the mirror above the dresser. It wasn't right. It couldn't be right. His hair almost touched his shoulders. He looked gaunt, thin, like he hadn't been eating. The bags under his eyes seemed to consume his face. He looked rough, worn out and old, especially compared to the barely legal looking punk that was complaining about how he hogs the whole bed.

Dean left the room, something about making breakfast. Sam took it as an opportunity to get out of bed and look at himself more closely in the mirror. His stubble was firmly into beard territory. Everything hurt. He was wearing a dingy white shirt and pajama bottoms. Sam noticed there was a hospital tag on his wrist. Once he started reading it the room was suddenly enveloped in white light.

When it cleared, Sam was sitting at a small table in the kitchen. He looked around. He could see into the living room from where he was and the kitchen contained little more than a stove, fridge, sink, and enough counter space to put a coffee maker, but it didn't look familiar. There was a half eaten plate of breakfast in front of him and he was wearing the same clothes. Dean was different though. Sam's stomach dropped. He knew which Dean this was. His jacket was missing, but the jeans, white t-shirt, tan over-shirt, Sam knew what was going to happen. Sam bowed his head down and waited for it. He knew he couldn't stop it, like he couldn't any of the other times. At least the first time he'd been pinned to a wall.

Dean was telling Sam something, he had only clued in to the fact that Dean was talking to him after the conversation had been going on for a while. Dean paused in all the appropriate spots, but continued on as though Sam had answered whether he actually had or not. And he kept chattering on and drinking his coffee when the first rip appeared across this t-shirt. He leaned against the counter and went about his morning routine, oblivious to the bloody claw marks and bites that scratched and ripped apart his body. He even smiled when he looked at Sam, his blood puddling at his feet on the floor and his intestines threatening to break through the shreds of skin holding them in place.

“I think you're sleeping again, Sam,” the voice chided him in annoyance.

“I'm pretty sure I'm awake,” Sam responded out loud as the Dean in front of him seemed as oblivious to Sam as he was to the wet thwack of his liver hitting the kitchen tile.

“But how do you know?”

Sam's hand automatically went to prod and rub at the scar in his left palm and he was suddenly on the couch. He looked over his shoulder and could see the dining table he had been sitting at, but the dishes had been cleared away along with all the blood, and Dean, he was gone. He looked down at himself. The white t-shirt and pajama bottoms were gone as well. He was in his normal jeans and flannel. Sam reached up and touched his face. He was clean shaven. The TV in front of him was playing some cheesy old horror movie, definitely something his brother would have picked out. He looked around for Dean in time to see him walk from the kitchen with a beer in each hand. Sam was sure he hadn't been in there when he looked a moment ago. Dean slid in next to him on the couch. He handed Sam his beer with a small smirk that made Sam squint his eyes and tilt his head in confusion. Dean just turned his attention to the TV. Sam noted Dean's thigh rubbed up against his and that Dean had stretched his arm behind him, his fingers lightly brushing Sam's shoulder. Sam looked down at the beer in his hand and picked at the label. He knew this Dean, bright-eyed and playful in a way his brother hadn't been in years. This Dean he knew for sure was a figment of his imagination. It was confirmed when Dean leaned over and kissed his neck just below his ear. His eyes fluttered shut and he knew he shouldn't give in, like somehow one of the real Deans would know and he'd be in trouble, but...

“Sammy, you okay?” the Dean on the couch asked him softly, looking at him with concern, but still looking Sam up and down with lust filled eyes as he traced his fingers up and down the seam on the inner thigh of Sam's jeans.

Sam shook his head. He really wasn't okay. He wasn't sure he knew how to be okay.

Dean smiled softly. “Don't worry, Baby Boy. I'll make it okay.” He brought his hand from Sam's thigh to caress Sam's cheek and rub his thumb across Sam's bottom lip. Sam closed his eyes and melted into the kisses Dean offered him. He tilted his head back to give him more access to his throat. He wanted Dean to make things okay, to make him better. And this Dean didn't hurt. He didn't hurt Sam. He didn't hurt himself.

Sam was no longer capable of thought when Dean bit down on his collar bone. He made eye contact with Dean and held it as his brother slid down to the floor. He coaxed Sam's legs open and to slide his hips forward. Sam moaned as Dean kissed, nipped, and sucked at the skin below his belly button. He didn't notice Dean had opened his pants until he pulled back to coax Sam to lift his hips to pull down his jeans and underwear. He blew warm air across the head of Sam's hard cock. Sam groaned.

“Don't worry, Sammy. I'll make it okay,” Dean assured him with a smirk before licking up the underside of Sam's cock.

Sam tilted his head back, unable to do more then be consumed by the sensations of Dean sucking his cock. The sinful things his brother's tongue did to him reducing him to a brainless bundle of firing nerves.

“God damn it, Sam!”

Sam's eyes snapped open at Dean's enraged tone. He frantically looked around. He was still on the couch, but back in the white t-shirt and pajama bottoms with cock in hand. The TV was playing nothing but static. Behind him, the kitchen table was covered in breakfast dishes. Dean was in the doorway looking pissed. Sam fumbled trying to desperately cover himself, more embarrassed than he could ever remember being.

Dean walked across the room and harshly yanked Sam off the couch by his arm and started dragging him towards the hallway. “How many times to we have to go over this, Sam? I don't give a shit about your fucked up fantasies, but keep it in your god damned room? I swear...”

Dean's rant faded to mute as the voice chimed in again. “You know, it doesn't have to be like this.”

Sam stumbled as he was forcefully shoved into his room, alone, and the door slammed behind him. “I told you before, I'm not...” He winced as he heard the lock click.

“All you have to do is pick one.” The voice made this same offer often.

“I'm not going to kill my brother.”

“You wouldn't be killing him, just limiting the number of him.”

“...How do I know which one is real?”

“Does it matter?” The voice taunted.

Sam sat on the bed and pulled his hair, trying to sort out his mind. There were too many blackouts and lost memories to form a coherent narrative of his life. He couldn't track minutes and hours, let alone days, weeks, months. Somethings he knew were fake, but most things he couldn't tell if they were really happening or not. They felt real. In the moment, things hurt or felt good, he could smell the blood, things were tangible, he could hear background noise. There was nothing really to suggest that it was in anyway fake, except for the things he knew were memories replaying or being transposed over current events. He couldn't prove they were memories, but he just sort of knew. Odd fragments of things would come to him, small bits of time that made no sense without context, but he never gets much time to try to work them out. There is always an interruption; bright lights, screeching sirens, a new Dean barges in, the setting changes, the time period changes. Most things right themselves; when Dean gets ripped apart by unseen hell hounds, the blood and his wounds magically disappear. Other times, he has to walk through it like you would in normal life; he wakes up in a blood filled warehouse, he has to escape and clean up; he wakes up in the middle of a bar fight, he defends himself until he blacks out into a new reality or escapes.

These moments, he thinks, are actual reality, if there is an actual reality. Sam is beginning to question even that. They have a few things in common that other moments don't. He almost always comes into them feeling confused and in pain. They also have no connection to anything he can relate to as a past event. The other transitions are smooth and all come with a weird sense of deja vu. He wishes he could talk about these observations to the voice, his one real constant in all this. Sam knows he should know who the voice belongs to. Hell, the voice taunts him with promises of real help if Sam could tell him his name. The voice does occasionally help guide him out of severely unpleasant situations, but mostly it taunts and provides snarky commentary. Sam is fairly certain the voice has more control over what is going on then he lets on. Sam hasn't figured out a real way of testing that though to be sure. He is also sure that the voice is not entirely on his side, but it's the closest thing he has to an ally, except when he has one of the good Deans, but they never know what he is talking about.

A headache was starting to form in the back of Sam's skull. He caved to the pain for once and laid back on the bed, letting all thoughts about trying to figure out what was going on fade from his mind. The pain went with it. Life was easier when he didn't think. Things were smoother. Dean took care of him. Things weren't perfect, but they were palatable, sometimes almost pleasant, as long as he didn't question the validity of the universe or something Dean said. Sam let everything float away until all that was left was his breathing. He sunk into that deep meditative state until a thought forced him to sit up. “What the hell was a djinn?”

The room hadn't changed. He hadn't changed. That was new. He almost never woke up in the same place he went to sleep and even then something was different. Sam got up and checked the door. It was unlocked.

“You're learning, Moose,” the voice praised.

“Thanks?” He looked up curiously, waiting for a reply. Not getting one, he walked out into the hallway. He could hear voices in another room close by, followed by a groan, definitely from his brother. Sam reached behind him to the waistband of his pants for a... gun? He paused did he have a gun? He really felt like there should be a gun there. He shook his head, dismissing the stray thoughts before they distracted him from what he was doing. Carefully, he crept down the hallway close to the wall towards the room the noises were coming from. When he got there, the door opened itself, giving him just enough of an opening to peer into it.

His brother was sitting in a chair, his legs sprawled. His eyes were closed, mumbling nonsense. One of his arms was draped over the arm of the chair, gripping a bottle. Occasionally, he'd interrupt his mumblings by bringing it to his lips for a drink. Between his legs was a short man in a black suit. Dean's free hand was gripping the man's hair. Sam felt a pang of jealousy. He managed to stop himself from barging in, but he couldn't stop watching.

He could tell Dean was getting off more on the mild humiliation of the man between his legs then his ministrations he was performing on his cock. Most of Dean's mutterings were unintelligible where Sam was, but he could pick out the occasional word. A flash of anger took him over when Dean's lips smirked around the word bitch as black eyes opened to stare straight at Sam.

Sam tried to force his way into the room, but he was thrown back and the door slammed shut. He struggled where he was held against the wall until he was dropped to the floor, then thrown down the hallway.

“And you had been doing so well,” the voice chided in his head before the world went black.

He opened his eyes to find himself chained up in a opulent office. His arms and legs were chained firmly to the chair he was seated on. There was a collar around his neck that prevented him from leaning forward and greatly hindered him moving his head. There was an empty chair facing him. It wasn't long before a short, balding man in an impeccably tailored black suit slid into it. “We need to have a chat.”

Sam was listening.

“At first, it was mildly amusing watching you string yourself along from one hell to another, at times, I was even impressed, but each time you get just a little more nosey, a bit more troublesome, and I'm bloody tired of it,” the man in the suit scolded. “You will be a good Moose and you will pick a Dean and you will stick with it. Do you understand?”

“But what if it's not the real Dean?”

“What does it matter?!”

“It's Dean!” Sam answered as though it explained everything.

“Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, your Dean is gone. I know it is difficult for that over sized melon you call a brain to comprehend, but you can't fix him. He doesn't need or want your help. The only thing he wants from you, is for you to go away. I have been more than generous trying to help you find a way to be happy, or at least marginally less miserable with your sad pathetic existence, but you keep fighting me at every turn. Now...”

The man in the suit's rant was interrupted by the world shattering around them like shards of glass. A searing cold burned through Sam's body. He couldn't see. His ears starting ringing. Sam was sure this time his head was going to explode and then suddenly it all stopped. He could hear his own heavy panting breaths. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was laying in the floor of some dingy motel room with two double beds, a kitschy screen, and a kitchenette.

Two people were arguing loudly near him. His body felt like lead as he slowly moved into a sitting position so he could see better. Dean was arguing with the man in the suit. They were arguing about Sam. The words swam in and out of his brain. He couldn't comprehend them. His head hurt. He was remembering. Dean died. He summoned... he summoned...

No, Dean couldn't be dead. This was just another thing in his head. He could fix this. Sam could fix this. If all of this was in his head, all he had to do was clear out his head. There was a gun on the table next to a stack of skin mags. He stood and lurched his way to it. His fingers were numb as he fumbled around to pick up the gun. He knocked the lamp over as he brought it up to his mouth. Dean and the man in the suit turned towards the noise.

Red bloomed behind Sam's eyes. A stabbing pain skittered up the base of his skull, causing him to drop to his knees. Dean started yelling Sam. Not just one Dean, but all the Deans. Every Dean that ever popped into his head, every version, every age. Their voices blending into deafening screaming. He brought his hands to his ears and gripped them tightly, not caring if he ripped them off in his attempt to make it stop. The world was consumed by blinding light.

The screaming in Sam's head slowly faded to silence and the blinding light faded away. Experimentally, Sam opened one eye, and then the other. He was still gripping the sides of his head, but without his notice the pain had faded too. It took a few moments for his confusion to fade. Nothing made any sense for a few moments. He took a couple careful breaths and let his arms rest at his sides. He realized he was looking in a mirror. His eyes looked so tired. Sam thought maybe his hair had been trimmed recently, tucking it behind his ears while he got a better look at his face. His face wasn't sunken looking as he was expecting. His skin was rough and he had a couple days worth of stubble, but he looked reasonably, healthy, despite the exhaustion painting his features. He touched his body, feeling for wounds, slightly shocked not to find any or that he wasn't in pain. The soft, grey sweatpants he was wearing were slightly too short, but comfortable. He also had on a dirty blue t-shirt that looked a bit stretched out and a worn out flannel robe, he seemed to have lost the tie to somewhere. Something shiny on his wrist caught his attention. There was a dog tag there, the cheap kind you get out of a vending machine at a grocery store or something. It was attached to a hand woven leather bracelet and said, “My name is Sam” on one side and “If found, please return to Dean Winchester” with a phone number on the other. Sam smirked at that. He felt like he should be annoyed, but he found it sort of sweet.

Sound started to come back to Sam. Someone was talking behind him. It sounded like it was underwater at first, but gained in clarity until he distinctly heard his brother say, “Hey! Earth to Sam!”

Sam looked at his surroundings in the mirror more carefully. He was in a bedroom. It was small and cozy with a big bed, but he couldn't see his brother. He turned around and found Dean directly behind him in a wheelchair.

“Come on, Sam. You know you have to hold this damn thing still while I climb in the bed until I can get the brake fixed.”

Sam couldn't get himself to move and his eyes zeroed in on Dean's missing leg. He must have looked confused as Dean just sighed like a long suffering parent being asked the same question for the fortieth time in a row.

“You zoned out and forgot again, didn't you?”

Sam just nodded, he really didn't know what Dean was talking about, but when his brother waved him over, he went and held his chair for him. He watched Dean climb onto the bed, using his arms and remaining leg to steady himself until he managed to sit on the bed and scoot back against the pillows. Dean rubbed at the stump of his left leg where there should have been a knee. “Come on, Sammy. Climb in and we'll go over your memory thing.”

Sam climbed in bed on the other side, a little surprised this was their bed, not his bed or Dean's bed. Dean wormed his way down into a more reclined position and patted his chest, waiting for Sam to rest his head there. Sam tensed, waiting for some unknown outside force to painfully strike at him as he did so, but none came. He relaxed into the sensation of his brother petting his fingers through his hair. He started reciting a set of facts that seemed almost entirely foreign to him, yet familiar as though he did this several times a day. “My name is Sam Winchester. I live at 1313 Ashland Street. I am thirty one years old. I live with my brother, Dean Winchester who... was in a car accident?”

He looked up at Dean for reassurance. When Dean nodded, he went on. “My mother died in a house fire when I was six months old and my father died... on a hunting trip...”

“That was uncle Bobby. Dad died in the car accident,” Dean corrected.

Sam nodded his head even though he really had no clue what either of them were talking about and went on. “I have... I'm not supposed to leave the house by myself because I get lost and forget things.”

“Close enough,” Dean squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

“...We were in a cult?”

“Yeah.”

“And I have a drug problem.”

“Had. And a really crazy ex-stalker-boyfriend-cult leader-person.”

Sam nodded. They all sounded right, even if he couldn't piece them together as memories.

“And?”

Sam blinked and turned to look up at his brother.

“You forgot the important one, Sammy.”

He frowned and wracked his brain. Sam didn't even know where he was pulling this information from to start with. “There is no such thing as demons?” Sam tried. He waited for the voice to chide him. The longer he waited, the harder it was to recall what “the voice” was or why he would be waiting for it.

Dean leaned down. “That's right, Sammy.” He kissed Sam softly.

Sam melted into the kiss at first, but then something in his brain pinged it as wrong and he started to panic. He wasn't sure if that was okay. If it wasn't okay, something bad was going to happen, but if he asked something bad was going to happen. He started to fidget and pull away from Dean.

“Sam? What's wrong?” Dean sounded a bit distressed.

Sam took a chance. “Is this okay?”

“Is what okay?”

“We're kissing.”

“Damn it, Sam. I'm missing part of my leg, not my dick. As you well know that still works...!”

Sam shrunk away from Dean's tone.

His brother sighed. “I'm sorry, Sam. Did Dr. Mills say something again yesterday, because you and I have talked about this and I think she's wrong. And I'd never push you.”

“So we...”

“Yeah, Sam. We do. That's still okay, right?”

Sam laid back down and nodded, “I think I want to sleep.”

“I'm right here, Sammy.”

While Sam Winchester was soothed to sleep, his face frowned in a gas station bathroom mirror. He squinted in frustration, concentrating deeply. His eyes turned red for several minutes. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wore a smirk of satisfaction, stood up tall, and blinked his eyes back to hazel. He straightened his flannel shirt one last time before he strolled out of the bathroom toward the waiting Impala.

“I don't know how your brother stands these things. You know, I could...” he started as he maneuvered his over sized meatsuit into the passenger seat.

Dean stopped him. “You get my brother under control in there?” His voice was pure annoyance.

“Why squirrel, I didn't know you cared.”

Dean practically growled. “I don't care about whatever the hell it is you are doing in there, but we had a deal, Crowley. You keep my brother out of my way and you get to ride around in a meatsuit I don't mind playing with and I allow you to stick around. Everybody wins, except maybe me. You keep fucking it up and letting that whiny bitch claw his way up to the surface.” Dean's eyes flashed black.

Crowley flared his nostrils, morphing Sam's normal bitchface into something far more calculating and menacing. Dean had no idea how hard he worked to create a world his brother would live contently in, but of course Moose had to question everything, breaking apart his hard work, or worse layering his own memories and guilt over things. Was it his fault his brother's psyche was a garbled, fractured mess of a horror show? He took a deep breath. He was Crowley. He was the fucking king of hell. He could lure Dean back under his control. All he had to do was make this work for a while. Crowley painted on his best salesmen smile. “Don't worry your pretty little head about Sam. He'll be occupied for quite a while.”

“You said that last time and the time before that,” Dean growled out.

A smirk slid up Crowley's face. “Believe me, I think I've got the problem figured out.” He leaned forward.

Dean grabbed the hair of the back of Crowley's head sharply and forced him down into his lap. Crowley would have complained about troublesome Winchesters, but it was impolite to speak with a full mouth.

 


End file.
